


Everyday Torment

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Gen, Insults, Language, Phase One (Gorillaz), Recreational Drug Use, Slurs, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: The truth is, Murdoc hated 2-D. He had worked for everything he had while 2-D seemed to be given everything on a silver plate. Hated him, but also needed him. Needed his looks, his voice, and his keyboarding skills. Murdoc would make him a celebrity. Surely that was worth a little bit of petty torment...





	Everyday Torment

**Author's Note:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** This one's a bit difficult to class. Murdoc is both a complex character and an unreliable narrator, even to himself. Almost nothing he says or thinks can be trusted. He is also... not kind. This story doesn't really have anything of a graphic nature in it, but might still cause discomfort. It is about Murdoc taking pleasure in doing little things to make 2-D's life a bit worse. There are slurs. There is insult. There are abuse tactics. There is also care, in the round-about way of someone who hasn't received enough of it to know what it is.

The truth was, he hated 2-D.

Hated him.

He had worked so hard to scrape up what he had and 2-D was handed everything on a plate.

It wasn’t just his looks, no matter how tall, or thin, or pretty he might be. So what if women turned to look at him long before he was aware enough of his environment to realize women were sharing it, let alone decide whether or not he wanted to approach them? Charisma had as much sex appeal, even if it did require work, and clever words, and would be so much easier with soft, boyish features. Features so charming they were not diminished by accidental ravaging, but rendered more exotic.

It wasn’t just his background, no matter how comfortably or lovingly he had been raised. Love and trust were weaknesses, leaving people open to predation. Money was desirable, easy living the goal of many, and rightly so. But too much ease smothered creativity – invention stemming from necessity – and drowned in soft trappings the ability to survive the world’s brutalities.

It wasn’t his talent either, no matter how powerful it was in spite of its lack of refinement. Talent was neither rare, nor special. It took work and opportunity to make it shine. Work and opportunity, or the needs of others to push it to the forefront, wave it like a banner. What good was singing if no one heard? What good were sentimental lyrics unless they could be played to an audience? What good were piano skills if they were only ever used in a synthesized environment, sounds mixed and mingled, artificial, digital, the glorified scream of a machine?

It wasn’t any one of these things.

It was everything.

And worse… it was knowing he had brought it on himself. He, _Murdoc Niccals_ , had brought this source of hatred into his life. He had set himself up for perpetual irritation, placing a poisoned reflection of the things he ought to have had up in his home to be gazed at daily like a walking reprimand of shortcomings he could not control.

Some days it was all he could do to contain his rage. On those days, he sealed himself away in his winnebago and indulged himself in vice.

On other days, he found other methods to deal with his poor decisions. Milder ones. Ones that left no lasting scars. Or, if it so happened that they did, left scars so faint they could not be seen with the naked eye.

Because the fact remained that he needed a band to make it big. Fame and fortune was not something a bassist could achieve on his own, no matter how fine his ear, how extensive his knowledge. He needed a band, and a band needed vocals, and the vocals best suited for the band belonged to 2-D.

More than vocals, a band needed a _look_ , and no one in this world or the next captured the band’s eclectic nature quite like 2-D. He was an element of the unusual wrapped up in a pretty face, his blood-dark eyes startling to those who did not know him, the very essence of a band that strove to upend the music industry in spite of its unassuming exterior.

He needed 2-D because he needed the band, but that did not mean he needed to make it easy for one whom, he felt, had reaped all the benefits of life, but suffered none of its trials and tribulations.

“Dents!” Murdoc shouted from the hall, waited a bit, and shouted again, not knowing exactly where 2-D had holed himself up. He supposed he could have looked for the kid, but he did not have that kind of time and he rather liked the way 2-D jumped to attention at the sound of his name.

True to form, 2-D stuck his head out of the front room, looking bleary-eyed and barely awake, possibly zoned out on painkillers and pot, perhaps a bit hungover, or maybe a little bit of all of the above.

“Yeah?” 2-D said.

Stellar conversation, Murdoc thought and tugged at the collar of his coat.

“Going into town,” he told 2-D. “You coming or not?”

It took a moment for the question to penetrate the haze of 2-D’s brain, but when it finally arrived, his eyes widened and he made a mad scramble for his room.

“Yeah!” 2-D said, running past him. “I need my jacket.”

“Well hurry up, the bus is leaving,” Murdoc called after the kid and ambled off toward the carpark, lighting a cigarette on his way. He had time enough to shout “Beep Beep!” only once in reminder before 2-D arrived at a run, flushed and panting as he adjusted the collar of his denim jacket.

“Done,” 2-D said, grinning like a dog about to go for a walk. Eying the cigarette, 2-D patted at his pockets, mild panic rising in his eyes when he realized he had none.

“Well, go grab some then,” Murdoc said, exaggerating his exasperation.

2-D nodded and ran off again, all but tripping over his own two feet.

“Just be quick about it!” Murdoc called after the kid, taking some pleasure in 2-D’s frantic state.

It wasn’t difficult to rile 2-D up – almost an insult to his abilities, really – but he did so regardless. Cheap and petty it might be, but it did the job of putting 2-D off just a little, making his day that much more hectic, cranking his anxiety up to a level easily maintained with small nudges, or hip-checked directly into whatever activity in which 2-D happened to be engaged, ruining it just a little.

He liked the idea of 2-D having a worse time than he. It made up slightly for all the time 2-D spent enjoying privileges of which he was unaware. Granted, a day in the life of Murdoc Niccals was seldom pleasant – not the least reason being his proximity to 2-D – so having a worse day was not an easy feat. He was willing to take up the challenge, however, and doing so cheered him, which, ironically, lowered the bar on everyday torment and left 2-D with just enough doubt as to the sources of his misery and just enough energy to recover from them.

This was important. As much as he hated 2-D, he needed the kid as well. To break him entirely meant losing the band.

Fortunately, for all his overuse of opioids and almost narcoleptic behaviour, 2-D had all the resiliency of those who were twenty and naturally gregarious. He bounded into the carpark like a puppy, all limbs and eager energy, sliding into the passenger seat even as he jammed a cigarette into his mouth and fished up a lighter.

“Where’re we goin’?” he said.

“Just out.” The habits of Murdoc Niccals were of no one’s business but his own. “I want a few things and thought you’d like to have an outing. That all right with you?”

“Yeah,” 2-D nodded. “I’s nice to get out sometimes. I thought just yesterday it might be nice to go out – to a proper place, like, not just to a party ‘cause we went to one of those, but they’re awful close and closed in, not real open like the outside or up at the shops – and I guess I said so out loud ‘cause Russ said we’d have to go soon anyway ‘cause we need some lights for the strips in the corridors an’ Noodle needs sock an’ the like – I guess she needs some drawers too ‘cause Russ said she needed ‘underthings’, which I guess is the same – an’ maybe new shoes, but not just yet. He thinks I ought to get some new shirts, too, but I think I still got lots of wear in ‘em unless, maybe, there’s somethin’ I like or—“

“I don’t need the whole run-down, Dents.” 2-D’s chatter wore Murdoc’s patience thin, even if its bright enthusiasm reminded him of hopes and dreams he had put aside long ago. “A list will do. We can get the lights, but unless you grabbed her sizes on the way out, we’ll have to make a special trip just for Noodle. Probably for the best,” he mused as he pulled out of the carpark and onto the road. “Two men fondling little girls’ panties is apt to draw us the wrong kind of attention.”

2-D ugly-snorted at that, following it up with a short burst of horrified laughter. He would not have ever thought it on his own, believing, as he did, in the best of people, but Murdoc’s experiences with human nature were quite different and he was not about to take chances in the children’s wear if he could help it.

“Shirts might not be a bad idea though,” he added, leading the conversation into safer waters. “It’s something to scout for anyway. That way we’re not completely aimless.”

“I’s not so bad, aimless,” 2-D said, sinking back into his seat and watching the world scroll past his window. What he could see of it at any rate. Hyphema in both eyes ensured a permanent blur to his vision. “You get to wander about, see things you never thought to look for.”

“That’s why you’re always lost, mate. You get at least one thing in mind that you’re looking for and it keeps part of your mind awake, looking for shops where you might find it. Even if you don’t go in, you look around, take in details, so you can remember where you saw it. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs so to speak.”

“A’s really clever,” 2-D told him, but Murdoc knew his advice would never be heeded. 2-D simply had his head in the clouds more often than not, trusting in others to tether him.

It was not a philosophy to which Murdoc subscribed. He knew better than to leave his fate in the hands of those whose interests were not his own.

“Find us some music, then,” he told 2-D, and then proceeded to complain about every offering, even those he enjoyed. 2-D remained unaffected, cheerfully sorting through the catalogue, but the criticisms would wear on him eventually, making him uncertain about his choices. Even chalking them up to a bad mood would throw him off as he pondered how best to navigate it.

“That’ll do,” Murdoc finally said, cutting the kid some slack. 2-D sat back, pleased with himself, and propped his knees up against the dashboard, self-cocooned in the passenger’s seat. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah,” 2-D replied, grinning. “I’s like curling up in bed, only not, ‘cause I’m sitting up mostly an’ can see out the window. Mum used to get mad when I did it ‘cause I was always behind her in the car and used the back of her seat, but they both had their seats pushed too far back for me to put my feet down comfortably an’ dad’s was always furthest back, so I couldn’t even put my knees up on it.”

“So why didn’t you just lie across?”

“‘Cause then I couldn’t see out the window,” 2-D said as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

In a sense, it was, although the practical thing, from Murdoc’s point of view, would be to lie across the seat with one’s back against the door. But then, he supposed, one might have motion sickness or, in 2-D’s case, stupidly pop the latch and spill out into the middle of the road.

“I suppose not,” he said instead and let 2-D blather on a bit about some road trip to the coast as he navigated traffic.

In all honesty, it took a madman to drive into town. A madman or one blessed by Satan himself. Murdoc rather liked to think he was the latter, but would settle for the former. He wasn’t picky as long as the assessment got him where he needed to go. It helped as well that he liked to grease the wheels of everyone he met, assuring himself contacts throughout the city. He would not call them friends – nor would they do so of him – but they knew he knew how to get things, find people, and broker back-room deals. He had done so for most of them at one time or another. Small things, nearly inconsequential things, “as a favour”. But favours grew and, in time, permitted him to ask almost anything of anyone at any time in return.

Including such minor inconveniences as parking in employee spaces.

“Rejoice! For I have come!” he said, pushing in the door to the shop with his boot, 2-D skulking along behind him.

“Oi! Niccals! I saw you through the window! Move your junk heap!”

Jimmy Greer was a large man with a shouty voice who liked to think he was imposing. He might even be so, to the average man, but it took more than considerable height and weight to dissuade Murdoc Niccals.

“Need a spot for the day, Jimmy,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“Well, Daz’s in today and needs the spot,” Jimmy said. “And put that shite out. You know I hate it.”

“It adds atmosphere,” Murdoc returned. “And is Daz gonna get you what I can get you?”

“Depends what you’ve got.”

“Estate sale. Major collector, too. Got a mate doing the cataloguing and liquidation. I’ll get first look, of course, but you know me. I’m no collector. Not like you are.”

Jimmy liked to play the big man, but he had his weaknesses, and those more pedestrian than most. A first look at the estate of a music lover might return some rare albums he did not yet have in his collection.

“Daz can walk,” Jimmy agreed. “If there’s anything good, I might even pay his parking.”

“If there’s anything good, it’ll be worth more than one day’s parking.”

“Won’t know until I see it, will I?” Jimmy said. “Just fucking try it again and we’ll see if I pat you on the back or club you. When?”

“Two weeks. I’ll have him give you a call when I’ve had my pick.”

It could be an outright lie, but Murdoc was not concerned. He had fulfilled his contract with truthfulness by actually knowing an appraiser who owed him a few looking at an estate of a man who actually did collect music. How good that collection would prove to be or when it would be looked at was anyone’s guess.

“Fair enough,” Jimmy said. “I know where you are if you pull a runner. Neil says some bloke named Mosh’s having a party tonight for most of the underground crew. You going?”

“That was the plan.”

In fact, Murdoc knew no one by the name of “Mosh” and was aware of Neil – Neil McCullough, he supposed – only tangentially, but he wasn’t about to let someone like Jimmy think him behind on the news. Oddly enough, such flat-out lies seldom turned on him. People were always eager to share with him knowledge he claimed to have.

“Shady buggers, the lot of them,” Jimmy opined. “Not sure it’s worth the time. Still… might be a few traders there. Did you catch the address?”

“Had it, but I’ve lost it,” Murdoc told him. “I hadn’t set my heart on stopping by and left it in another pocket. Meant to meet with another bloke and get it from him, but if you’ve got in on hand…”

The request proved unnecessary as Jimmy was already scribbling something on a sheet of paper and sliding it across the counter.

“Mosh’s place, from what I’m told,” Jimmy said. “If you show, you might want to leave the feeb at home.”

“None of that,” Murdoc replied, allowing his voice to harden. “That’s my singer you’re on about and I won’t have it.”

In truth, he had no issue with slurs, but insulting 2-D or his intelligence needed a delicate touch. 2-D’s natural talents might be an affront, but they did exist, and if 2-D’s understanding came slowly, well… he always got there eventually. For someone like Murdoc, who spent days at a time in 2-D’s company, the patterns were obvious and easy to exploit, but he did not trust others to understand or apply their insult effectively. Insult should be a slow erosion, halted – and even reversed – by the careful application of praise.

To that end, it did no harm to argue in 2-D’s defence, especially where he could hear the exchange. It would build him up a little, and help balance out any minor slights and irritations Murdoc might find to inflict upon him throughout the day.

“You say that, but I have yet to hear a damned thing from you,” Jimmy said. “Face facts. You’ve got another bum band on your hands.”

“You’ve my permission to bugger yourself and all of your ancestors,” Murdoc told him. “The album’s being worked on. We’re just taking a break. I’ll send you an invite to the next pub show. You’ll see.”

“Sure sure. You do that,” Jimmy said doubtfully. “I might even drop by.”

“Something else to look forward to,” Murdoc returned and let the comment hang. Jimmy could decide for himself whether it was an insult or a compliment. He seemed about to respond when 2-D ambled up to the counter, LPs in hand.

“Find something you like?” Murdoc said.

2-D grinned at him and Murdoc ignored Jimmy’s slight flinch at the sight of 2-D’s gapped teeth and blood-black eyes. Ridiculous, really. The kid could smile like the sun, weird-ass afflictions aside. In many ways, they even added to his charm. The birds would like it, Murdoc knew, and that was all that mattered.

In a flash of inspiration, he waved 2-D off from fishing for his wallet.

“I got ‘em, mate,” he said. “A little gift for the work you do.”

2-D’s smile brightened ten-fold, although his expression did not seem to change, and Murdoc congratulated himself on a fine caper. It wasn’t a hardship – 2-D had only selected a couple of albums, after all – and in return he would receive 2-D’s terribly desperate regard and the perfect “fuck you” to Jimmy: one that was not so subtle as to be missed, but one so tied up in making a sale that he couldn’t say boo about it.

Transaction complete, Murdoc passed 2-D his purchases to moon over and exhaled a stream of smoke. He was even considerate enough to blow it away from Jimmy.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said. “Give Daz my love.”

“Have your man give me a call and I won’t need to kick your arse,” Jimmy replied.

Out on the pavement and free from the constraints of society, Murdoc allowed himself to relax a little.

“Don’t know what you see in that psychedelic nonsense,” he told 2-D, who only grinned shyly at him. In fact, he was only too aware of the rational behind 2-D’s preferences. It was called “stoner” music for a reason, after all.

“You wanna put ‘em in the boot?” he offered. “Better than carryin’em around all day.”

“Jimmy’s got some nice stuff, but I dun think I really like him,” 2-D confided as they stopped by the vehicle to lock his treasures out of sight.

“Nobody likes Jimmy,” Murdoc assured him. “They just like his stuff, as you say. And sometimes he has news. It always pays to know what’s happening. There’s a mall a ways from here. Shank’s mare’ll do it. Won’t be a minute unless we find what we need on the way. Then it’ll be less. Need a pick-me-up?”

2-D waffled a moment, but then agreed. He often shied away from stimulants, nervous sort that he was, but the pain killers and relaxing psychotropics he preferred – not to mention his own health issues – often wore him out too soon. On occasions when he knew he needed to be alert, it did not take much convincing to get him to change tack.

And as an added bonus for the pocketbook, he was new enough to the scene that it took very little to perk him up.

“Addy’ll do ya, mate,” Murdoc told him, fishing a bottle from the recesses of his jacket and tossing it over. 2-D juggled it nervously, nearly dropping it, but managing to catch it in the end, popping the lid to shake a couple into his hand. “Two’s plenty. Don’t waste my supply. I don’t mean to spend the day in the A&E with you either.”

“I wun’ta,” 2-D objected, oblivious to the vague threat in Murdoc’s tone. He tossed the prescription back and downed the pills with the dregs from one of the bottles of water he kept stashed around vehicles and the studio for just such a purpose. The age and freshness of the liquid remained a mystery for the ages.

“It’ll take a few, but you’ll be tip-top by the time we get to where we’re going,” Murdoc said, locking up the vehicle and striding off in the direction of the shops, leaving 2-D to catch up.

It did not take him long, given the length of his stride, but intermittent pauses and distractions left him trailing behind and scrambling to get back in step. Murdoc took personal note of 2-D’s difficulties, but allowed no physical evidence that he had done so. It served him right, Murdoc thought, for having such long legs and a pretty face in the first place. If 2-D thought that good looks were enough to grant accommodations, he would soon learn differently, and his little gasps of surprise at being left behind and grunts of exertion in catching up took an edge off the years of effort Murdoc had spent in overcoming the difficulties of _not_ having a pretty face. 

Or so he told himself.

He supposed, at certain intervals, he worried that he had lost 2-D completely. The singer was not terribly good with directions, and if he zoned out long enough to allow Murdoc to get out of sight, well… anything could happen to him. And Murdoc still needed him, shame that it was. Needed his voice and his pretty, pretty face. Needed him, and hated him for being needed.

In spite of these niggling concerns, Murdoc managed to keep his eye on his destination and ignore 2-D’s struggles until the singer begged him to wait, just a minute, _please_ , at which point Murdoc pulled up to the final crossing and turned to look at him, lingering near the lights.

“What’s the problem, Nancy?” he said.

“Um… I just… um…” 2-D said, his fingers questing in and out of his pockets and tugging on the edge of his clothing. Adderall brought alertness, but its slow absorption into the bloodstream also brought nervous twitches and heightened senses. Bothered by sounds, smells, and the itchiness of stiff seams at the best of times, this creeping sensitivity drove 2-D to distraction.

“I just need a minute,” he finally managed and proceeded to readjust every article of clothing he wore.

“Well, don’t fucking play with yourself in the street!” Murdoc snapped as 2-D straightened the legs of his jeans.

“I’m not,” 2-D protested.

“No need to undo your trousers.”

“I’m not!”

“You’re bloody mental,” Murdoc huffed, lighting a cigarette as 2-D moved up to his shirt, pulling and tugging until it sat just right, and then proceeded to do the same with his jacket. “Here, now. You’ve missed your laces.”

“Oh,” 2-D breathed, soft and mournful.

Murdoc sighed. If 2-D bent down now, it would ruin the careful placement of his clothing and they would need to waste even more time waiting for him to set them all to rights again. More to the point, 2-D was not the swiftest when it came to lacing his trainers. It was not a lack of knowledge or ability as many – mainly Murdoc – often claimed, but those long fingers, so sure as they danced across the length of his keyboards, lost all dexterity when it came to complex fine motor skills.

2-D claimed that he was fine. That he could do it, really. That he had never had problems before and did not see why he should have them now. And he _could_ actually tie his shoes _eventually_ , long after he was biting his lip in frustration and mortification and everyone else’s patience had run out.

Murdoc tried to ignore the free-floating question that came to mind of whether or not two vehicle accidents resulting in direct blows to the face could have anything to do with 2-D’s difficulties, and seized instead upon his own feelings of impatience.

“Never mind,” he told 2-D, jamming the cigarette securely into the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got it. Wouldn’t want you ruffling your shirt.”

“Thank you,” 2-D told him, his relief puppy-like and pathetic as Murdoc knelt down to tie his shoes. Murdoc pulled the laces a bit more snugly than was strictly necessary, but not so tight that they would hobble 2-D and incite a flood of complaints later in the day.

“Damned right,” Murdoc said, standing. “What would you do without me, eh?”

“Work inna shop,” 2-D replied without the faintest hint of humour or irony. A shop was where he had worked before Murdoc had rammed through the front window with his car. If Murdoc had not done so, 2-D would certainly still be working there.

“Sharp as a brick, you are,” Murdoc told him. “You good to go? We’re nearly there.”

2-D nodded his agreement and they continued on to the shops, 2-D’s attention and excitement rising as the Adderall began to settle in his system, leaving him goggle-eyed and fascinated by everything. Murdoc took advantage of this energy and good humour by wasting it on window shopping and crude jokes that caught them dirty looks from passers-by. He took 2-D to look for his shirts while his enthusiasm quashed any desire to waffle over the look, style, or expense and allowed him to purchase two whose printed images he liked before convincing him to buy at least one or two dressier shirts and a pair of clean trousers on the off-chance that Murdoc needed him to gussy up for the cameras. Then he left 2-D to flirt with a mannequin while he looked a few things over for himself.

When 2-D slunk back over to him, head hanging, and humiliated, Murdoc gave him a wink.

“She turn you down?”

“You coulda told me,” 2-D reproached him. “You know I dun see so good…”

“It was a lark, mate,” Murdoc told him, brushing the incident off as good fun. “You seemed to be having a nice time. I knew you’d figure it out when she didn’t talk back to ya.”

“I didn’t even. The shopkeep came an’ told me off.” 2-D hunched up as if trying to hide inside his jacket. “I dun wanna be here anymore.”

“Two more minutes,” Murdoc told him, making a show of examining clothing he had no interest in. “You’ve paid for yours, so you won’t need to talk to the staff again.”

2-D waited as requested, saying nothing, but occasionally casting hurt, puppy-dog eyes at Murdoc in the hopes that the pathetic fact of his existence would be enough to elicit pity. Murdoc could have told him how much pity he was worth, but settled for ignoring him. He could feel 2-D’s plaintive stare boring into the back of his skull, but did not let it prevent him from thoroughly going over every piece of clothing on the rack.

“Let’s go, then,” he said when he reached the end and 2-D’s stare reached what, for someone else, might be considered heartbreaking proportions. “It’s about time for lunch, I think. After that, I’ve a few things to look for and we can pick up the strip lights on the way out.”

It was, in fact, mid-afternoon. A bit late for lunch under ordinary circumstances, but Murdoc preferred to miss the crowds and 2-D had certainly not complained. He had a strange relationship with food that Murdoc could not quite fathom, but that seemed to swing wildly between “all” and “nothing”. Sometimes 2-D forgot entirely that food existed until he was gently reminded of the fact and sometimes, particularly in that sweet spot where he was just drunk enough or just high enough to light all his senses on fire, he was ravenous, and woe to anyone who left their snack foods unattended.

With the Adderall coursing through his veins, 2-D was not inclined to sit still by choice, but the mention of food reminded his body that it still need fuel to function and Murdoc heard the singer’s stomach rumble in agreement as he ambled along. Giving 2-D’s brain a chance to catch up to both his body’s hunger and the required sitting that would go against the sizzling of his blood, Murdoc paused here and there, pretending to take an interest in various items until 2-D started craning his neck to catch a glimpse inside an eating establishment next door. Murdoc was not a huge fan of prefab pub-in-a-box establishments, but it was close enough for government work and he ushered 2-D inside, finding a semi-isolated booth where they could hunker down for a couple of pints and whatever mulch was on the menu.

“Fish and chips or tenders?” Murdoc said as the server approached and took their drink order.

“I’m still lookin’,” 2-D told him.

“Sure you are,” Murdoc replied. 2-D was nothing if not predictable, but if it amused the kid to look over the menu, it was no skin off his nose.

2-D fidgeted through his reading, attempting clever comments on the offerings, and was nearly halfway through his pint before Murdoc decided it was time to finish up the charade and ordered a steak and onion pie. Cornered with the server looming over him, 2-D succumbed to the chicken tenders.

“I like ‘em really, but I like to look at the other things too,” he said, masking the foregone conclusion of his choice with faux reason. “There’s all kinds of things on the menu these days an’ I might wanna try one sometime. I dun always like things like stew ‘cause i’s wet an’ chunky all at once, but the pies sometimes look good when they aren’t too much like stew an’ I think sometimes I should try one.”

“You wouldn’t like it, mate,” Murdoc assured him. “Not this kind anyway. You don’t like cooked onion in your food.”

“Not big pieces, no,” 2-D agreed, caught between relief that he need not explain his choices and embarrassment that he, an adult, should be put off by something as simple as cooked onion. “They’re slimy. Little bits’re a’right. You dun have to bite ‘em.”

“You like mushy peas though.”

“Mmm… a bit. Not really, really, but I dun mind ‘em. I think ‘cause I have ‘em with fish an’ chips so much. I’s wasteful not to have ‘em, but I wouldn’t cry to not see ‘em, I dun think.”

“They’re good for you.”

“There’re all kinds of things that are good for you that dun taste so good,” 2-D said, grinning almost shyly. “Or sometimes they dun taste good one way, but are okay another way. Like, I dun like cooked carrots, but I dun mind ‘em raw. They’ve a nice crunch. When I was l’il, I would pretend I was a rabbit when I ate ‘em. My neighbour had a rabbit…”

And that was that. 2-D was off to the races. He would speak all day if Murdoc let him, which Murdoc seldom did. Who really needed to listen to such inane prattling all day long?

Nevertheless, he found it useful to give the kid free rein sometimes, and so he let 2-D jabber on. He even listened in, having nothing better to do. It did not take much brain power to let the wash of words roll over him: how 2-D’s neighbour had a rabbit and how he liked rabbits because they were so soft, although he had not had a rabbit, he’d had a dog, and he missed his dog, who had died, but he did not think he would get another, not just yet, because the studio was maybe not the best place for animals, given the weird, supernatural occurrences and roaming undead, which were not nearly as cool as the undead in movies, lacking plot as they did, although some of the movies he’d seen were not really much better and he’d watched one just lately that involved zombie strippers from outer space and was terrible, even if some of the actresses were very pretty, really…

Unaware of his level of engagement, Murdoc startled himself with his own laughter as 2-D outlined some of the antics in the very terrible zombie stripper movie. The singer described the scene with such passion and enjoyment that it was impossible not to be sucked in.

It bothered him a little, this lapse of attention, this spark of genuine emotion. He was supposed to be the cool and collected one, the experienced one, a snob in some ways, a degenerate in others. A leer or a smirk over a lascivious description was fine and in keeping with his character, but unguarded laughter was not.

2-D did not seem to notice – at least he did not seem to notice the cracks Murdoc had exposed in his defenses - but he fed on Murdoc’s good humour and talked about more monster movies, a topic he enjoyed madly, and Murdoc let him. He even allowed himself to enjoy it a little, although he carefully masked that enjoyment from anyone else in the restaurant, and felt a flash of irritation when 2-D trailed off, his attention taken by something outside.

The something turned out to be a young woman, her scoop-collared dress up to waterline, as she strutted by the window, unaware of the attention she drew from inside.

“Oh!” 2-D breathed, and then, “Oh…”

“Don’t mind the dross, mate,” Murdoc told him, fighting back an irrational wave of jealousy.

Not jealousy, he told himself. Envy. Envy for 2-D’s good looks. Envy for how easily 2-D would be able to entice a woman that beautiful into bed with him. Envy, even, for 2-D’s genuine pang of puppy dog love whenever a pretty girl crossed his field of vision. Cynicism had long since cooled Murdoc’s sex drive to a secondary function, a tool to use, manipulate, and pad his image. A fun tool, granted, but a tool none the less.

Envy for all of 2-D’s privileges that had passed him by. That was what he felt.

Jealousy implied a fear that the girl would take 2-D away from him.

“She wan’t,” 2-D complained, sticking up for the woman even though she was a stranger. “She’s not bad just ‘cause she’s pretty. I was just lookin’ anyway…”

“A bird like that just wants your money,” Murdoc told him. “She’d suck you dry and leave you.”

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ sucked dry,” 2-D sniggered, startling another laugh out of Murdoc.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Murdoc chastised, knowing nothing of the sort, but willing to give 2-D the benefit of the doubt.

He might have pursued the conversation, but the server arrived to take away their glasses and return them filled alongside their meal. 2-D managed to repeatedly burn his fingers – and subsequently his mouth – with his chips, a show Murdoc watched with further amusement before reminding him that forks existed.

“I’s not the same,” 2-D insisted, delicately pinching a piece of chicken between two fingers, taking a bite, and then covering his mouth with his other hand as he sucked in air to cool it. “I’s finger foods,” he continued once the temperature dropped enough to shove the morsel into his cheek. “You eat it with your fingers.”

“Suit yourself,” Murdoc said, and picked at his pie as 2-D futzed with his meal until he was able to eat at a normal pace.

Normal for him, in any event, which was surprisingly quick. Chemically alert and hyper-aware of his own hunger, 2-D all but inhaled his food without giving the appearance of wolfing it down, his bites interspaced with comments on the crispness of the chips, the seasoning of the chicken, the last place at which he had ordered the same meal, that one time Russel had tried to make some at home from scratch that were good in their own way but not at all the same as ordering from a restaurant, and his favourite sauces. He tried to get Murdoc to taste the tenders, but was not put out when he was refused, and finished his food well ahead of Murdoc, bouncing one leg under the table as he focused intently on shredding the paper napkin that had come with his meal.

“You can help finish my chips, if you want,” Murdoc told him, partly to give him something to do and partly for his own purposes.

2-D told him it was fine, that he had had enough, but began to steal the odd one anyway – “Just one, ‘cause this one looks very crisp.” – until he had finished half of what was left on the plate, at which point Murdoc encouraged him to order dessert, if he wanted. 2-D, never one to turn down sweets, did so.

“Done?” Murdoc said when 2-D finally sat back, sucking a dribble of sticky pudding from his fingers.

“Mm? Mm-hm,” 2-D mumbled around the edge of his thumb. A slight furrow creased his brow and he uttered a small, breathy sigh as he began to realize what Murdoc had already known: that food eaten quickly experienced a delay before hitting the stomach like a lead weight.

It was something 2-D never seemed to remember, in spite of repeated upsets after unregulated cases of the munchies, and Murdoc never hesitated to take advantage of it. The discomfort was mild, but it was discomfort all the same, and the kid’s own fault, really, if anyone were to question it. He hadn’t needed to order dessert or finish half of Murdoc’s chips, rich and greasy foods respectively. He had been given an option and chose the worse part on his own.

“You all right there, Dents?” Murdoc said, putting on a show of concern. 2-D looked fine, if overwhelmed, and he nodded as he sought his wallet, pausing when Murdoc raised his hand. “I’ve got lunch. You can owe me.”

It was a small expense, really, considering the entertainment, but it cheered 2-D considerably. He grinned as he uttered his thanks, and stood to stretch a little, his shirt riding up to flash a small sliver of his belly, depressingly flat for all his discomfort.

Hardly fair, Murdoc thought, considering his own creeping paunch, and then dismissed the concern. He had bigger things to worry about than a few extra pounds. They had certainly never hurt his chances with the ladies, not when a skilled tongue – for words and other things – brought greater returns.

Wandering back out to the shops, Murdoc kept an easier pace so as not to lose sight of 2-D whenever he stumbled to a halt, staring blankly at dressed windows, sleepy-full and scratching absently at his abdomen, eyes lighting with a mixture of embarrassment and puppyish joy whenever Murdoc called after him to shake a leg. They stopped to look at some hats, mocking the styles, trying them on – to better mock them, of course, wouldn’t be caught dead in them – and mocking each other for looking like twats, 2-D catching the most of it, posing in a cowboy hat as though he fancied himself the next Clint Eastwood.

“Put it back, you wet end,” Murdoc huffed when a gaggle of girls passed by and giggled at 2-D as he winked at them and tipped his hat.

“I dunno, I like it,” 2-D told him, admiring his reflection. The posturing only lasted until he checked the price tag, and then he hurriedly returned the hat to its stand.

2-D’s flirtations left Murdoc in a sour mood, but his moods seldom outlasted a bout of petty revenge.

Finding the shop where he had left a pair of boots for repair, he noticed 2-D beginning to fidget, toying with his waistband. Being a good half-hour past the time they had eaten, Murdoc could place a fair guess as to why.

“Um…” 2-D said, tugging Murdoc’s sleeve when the clerk went into the back to find his order. “I’mma go find the loo.”

“You’re going to wait here,” Murdoc told him. “You get lost in the studio toilets. I’m not spending the rest of the day trying to track you down in a crowd.”

“But I really need—“

“We’ll go as soon as I’m done. You’re an adult. You can wait.”

“If I’m an adult, I shouldn’t have to,” 2-D grumbled, but did as he was told. He had little choice in the matter. If he tried to step too far away, Murdoc caught his arm or his clothing and drew him back.

“Soon enough,” Murdoc assured him, eschewing his cards in favour of fishing through his various pockets for a selection of bills and coins with which to pay the cobbler. By the time he finished, 2-D practically quivered with the effort not to pace and wring his fingers.

“All right, all right, simmer down,” Murdoc told him, tapping his arm and pointing toward the door of the shop. “Lead on, then. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

2-D all but bolted from the shop, Murdoc’s continual attempts to rein him in having trained him well enough not to surge too far ahead. They found the public toilets only a few doors down, much to 2-D’s obvious relief. Murdoc, too, availed himself of the facilities while he was there, and then waited until 2-D stumbled out, no longer antsy, but brow furrowed.

“I coulda dun it myself,” he said bitterly. “It was just there.”

“True,” Murdoc admitted, “but we didn’t know that, did we? It could have been much farther.”

“I’d have found it,” 2-D assured him. “I can take care’a myself.”

“No doubt, but you do get turned around, mate. What would be worse? Waiting for me or setting out on your own, losing your way, and having to wait until someone could help you or for me to find you? Better to stick together, honestly.”

A coil of uncertainty wormed its way into 2-D’s expression. He frowned a bit and chewed on his lower lip a moment before replying, “I s’pose.”

“And I know. I’ve been there,” Murdoc said, although his assurances had little effect on 2-D’s perturbed expression. He wondered if the Adderall was wearing off and received his answer when 2-D uttered a weary sigh and started digging through his pockets, the furrow in his brow deepening, his eyes narrowing to a squint in the afternoon sun. “What’s the matter, then? Headache bit ya?”

“Um… Kinda,” 2-D replied. “I’s not bad, really, but…”

“Little nibble?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I’m not carting your sorry arse back to the car,” Murdoc told him, waving him toward a coffee shop. “Stop in there. We’ll get you some water for your pills and some caffeine to keep you going. You won’t want anything stronger until you’re sure the pain’s taken care of.”

“Yeah,” 2-D agreed, dozy and unfocused. “Thanks.”

“Just get in the shop, sunshine. I haven’t got all day.”

The shop’s interior offered some relief from the harsh daylight and Murdoc steered them both towards a booth in the dimmest corner, signalling to the server that they would need two coffees and a glass of water as he passed. 2-D slumped against the wall in a semi-recline the moment he slid into the booth, finally finding his pill bottle and pulling it out of an inner pocket. His water arrived just as he shook the medication into his hand and he smiled his gratitude at the waitress, mildly flirtatious even in his moment of pain.

“Not too many, now,” Murdoc told him, bringing 2-D’s attention back to the task at hand. “You don’t want to keel over in the street. Just enough to take the edge off. We’ll head back after this and you can take some more back at the studio. Perhaps even in the car, if you don’t mind my sending Russel down to haul you inside.”

2-D grinned at that and only popped one pill in his mouth, chasing it with water. In spite of his warning, Murdoc had expected him to take at least two. It was flattering, in a way, suggesting that 2-D had quite enjoyed their day out, in spite of all its inconveniences to him, and wished to be alert enough to experience the rest of it.

“I’s nice to go out,” 2-D confirmed, stirring a truly terrible amount of sugar into his coffee. “I’s nice to go home too. I wanna listen to the albums I got. You wanna listen with me?”

“Could do, perhaps,” Murdoc replied. 2-D’s choice of vinyl was not his preferred listening, but it was relaxing enough for downing drinks and smoking and he had nothing better to do. “Depends what’s waiting for us when we get back.”

“Mm,” 2-D murmured around the lip of his coffee cup.

It could have meant anything, but Murdoc chose to interpret it as polite agreement with the understanding that 2-D would likely swallow another pill or two and pass out listening to his new music. It seemed a reasonable guess. It had been a long day and Murdoc had needled him as much as he safely could. While not especially damaging, the discomforts he devised were both irritating and exhausting, especially for someone like 2-D, who had very little energy to begin with. That he was still in good spirits was a mixed blessing. On one hand, a 2-D in good spirits was a 2-D that would make it back to the studio in one piece without physical assistance and be ready to sing and play when he was needed. On the other hand, seeing 2-D in good spirits in spite of all the little annoyances he had devised made Murdoc wonder if he was off his game.

No matter, Murdoc decided. He had had his little moments, and 2-D’s lazy smile was not really a hardship. For all his envy, Murdoc could not really deny that 2-D was a very pretty boy. The blood-black tint of his eyes was as charming as it was creepy, especially with his lids at half-mast, his expression gentle and sleepy as he leaned back against the wall, his cup cradled in both hands.

_He could love you._

Murdoc froze a moment, and then lifted his cup to hide his expression as he considered this thought. Unbidden and unwanted, it remained in the back of his head for a spell before he casually pushed it aside.

Of course 2-D could love him. 2-D loved everyone, much like an affectionate dog. It would be more shocking to think that 2-D might _not_ love someone.

Not that it mattered one way or the other. 2-D was an idiot, pure and simple. An idiot with talent, certainly, provided he received adequate direction, but an idiot all the same. A pretty one, yes, but still. Sympathetic and relatively kind? Sure. If one forgave the odd faux pas that spawned from his idiocy.

2-D could love, but the object of his affection would have to be a planner, capable of giving him direction, and able to manage his various health issues, his aches and pains, and the medication he took to quell them. They would have to be as love-starved as 2-D was gregarious, willing to settle for his effusive, mindless expressions of adoration without question or concern for their personal image. They would have to simultaneously take care of the absolute twat and permit him to think he was taking care of them in turn. This might not be too difficult if affection was all they sought, but… really.

Where was the benefit in that?

Murdoc then realized that 2-D was speaking.

“—an’ I thought maybe, if we’re goin’ back to Kong, we ought to get take-away for Russ ’n’ Noodle ‘cause it’ll be late an’ that’d be nice,” 2-D said. “You paid lunch an’ my albums, I think I have enough that I could pay it, but you would have to stop for it, unless we called for delivery, but with take-away, we could have something that we can’t order in. Sometimes different is nice.”

“Well, yeah… if you wanna go about it that way,” Murdoc agreed. If 2-D wanted to waste his money, it was no skin off his nose. “You have something in mind?”

“Mmm,” 2-D mused, hard-pressed to come up with something that was not normally served with chips.

“Well, we could just walk back and see if anything comes up,” Murdoc suggested, amused by the relief that washed over 2-D’s face. “You done, then?”

He waited as 2-D stopped by the toilets one last time before beginning the trek back to the car, picking up the strip lights along the way. 2-D carried them until his constant, sudden turns to look at storefronts became a danger to both lights and pedestrians and Murdoc was forced to take charge of them. He didn’t mind, really. It gave him an excuse not to enthuse over every little thing that caught 2-D’s attention and he could focus instead on smoking and strolling. He kept a more moderate pace on the return and 2-D was forced to play catch-up less often. Being unwinded made him chatty, but Murdoc found he did not mind. It was a nice day, he’d finished his few errands, and amused himself by toying with 2-D, who remained energetic enough to march his own sorry arse back to the vehicle. A productive use of his time all-in-all.

Had they reached the car and returned to Kong Studios, that would have been the end of it. Instead, they found Daz waiting for them.

“Oi, Niccals, you bloody wanker,” Daz called to them as they approached. He was perched on the car’s bonnet, smoking a cigarette. “You’re in my spot!”

“Talk to Jimmy,” Murdoc told him, tossing his own butt onto the pavement and leaning the lights up against the side of the vehicle. “He’s the one sold you out, mate.”

“Don’t ‘mate’ me, ya bastard,” Daz replied. “You know how far away I had to park?”

“Well, go grab your car, then. We’re on our way out.”

“Won’t save me a dime now.”

“Like I said, talk to Jimmy.”

Daz bobbed his head in a pensive rhythm as if deciding whether or not it was worth his time to push the matter further. Murdoc felt as much as heard 2-D shuffling about behind him, anxious in the face of possible confrontation. It was his first meeting with Daz, a fact that did nothing to alleviate Murdoc’s deep-seated envy.

“He’d better get something out of whatever deal he cut you,” Daz eventually said, taking one last puff of his cigarette and stubbing it out on his boot. For a moment, Murdoc thought he would stub it out on the bonnet, but it seemed that not even Daz was that stupid.

“He said he’d pay your parking if he did, so keep your receipts,” Murdoc told him by way of encouragement. “Now, are you gonna get down off my vehicle or am I gonna move you myself? I’ve got an album to record.”

“You won’t be headed to Mosh’s place then?”

Murdoc paused. He had forgotten the round-about invitation and about Mosh in general. No great loss, although he was loathe to dismiss an opportunity to network out of hand.

That said, if he meant to attend, it would have to be with 2-D in tow. He had no intention of bringing the singer to the studio before driving back across town. 2-D was knackered, that was plain. It was possible to prop him up with a few amphetamines, but he would pay for it tomorrow and the album needed its vocals. As much as he liked to run 2-D ragged, it was a delicate balance, and a party full of strangers and illicit substances was apt to tax 2-D beyond his limits.

“Not sure it’s worth my while,” Murdoc said, fishing a fresh cigarette out of his packet and cupping his hand to light it. “Sounds like a bunch of wankers.”

“No doubt,” Daz agreed. “Word has it though that Mosh’s found a good supplier. Fresh stuff, pure as the driven snow, if you catch my meanin’. A new pressing of E—“

Daz’s monologue choked to a stop as Murdoc grabbed his arm, hauling him off the car and several feet away from 2-D, who stared after them in bewilderment. Murdoc raised a hand to indicate he needed a minute, and pushed Daz up against the wall of the shop.

“Supply’s a need to know and he doesn’t need to know,” Murdoc hissed under his breath. “A handful’s just a luxury purchase, but the chain of supply…”

“I get you,” Daz said. “Idiot’s apt to run his mouth—“

“Shut your gob, that’s _my_ singer you’re on about,” Murdoc snarled. “I won’t have it. You want to run your lip, get your own.”

“Just a singer, is he?” Daz said, and then winced as Murdoc tightened his grip. “None of my concern,” he added quickly, “but if you want a part of the bargain before the supply runs out, you’d do well to swing by.”

“I’ll think about it,” Murdoc said.

“A tip for a tip then?”

“Keep it up and maybe the next time I won’t take your spot. How’s that for a tip?”

“Fuck you very much. Bloody wanker.”

Murdoc scowled as Daz jabbed him in the chest with his middle finger, but released him, giving him a little shove up against the wall as he did so.

“As a bonus, I’ll let you keep that finger,” Murdoc said, and then signalled to 2-D. “Get the lights in the boot. We’re leaving.”

Daz dismissed them with a wave as he headed back into the shop and Murdoc helped 2-D load their purchases into the vehicle before piling into it themselves.

Daz might be taken care of, but the dilemma of Mosh remained. Did he want to risk exhausting 2-D to the point of uselessness? Normally, he wouldn’t care, but he’d spent a day needling the kid. With the possibility of a migraine hovering on the horizon, it might be best to get him home and built up before he needed to be yelled at during a recording session.

On the other hand, a party was apt to be full of women none too picky about their partners. If anything worked to build 2-D up, it was a quick shag with some bird poured into her blouse. Depressingly trite, but a quick and easy way to make up for the day’s trials and tribulations.

Regardless, the knowledge did nothing to make the decision easier, so Murdoc passed the stress along by asking 2-D directly.

He needn’t have bothered. Any possibility of meeting women was acceptable in 2-D’s book, with only the slightest of hesitations.

“But then we couldn’t bring take-away to Russ and Noodle,” he said.

“True,” Murdoc admitted, climbing into the car, “but they weren’t expecting us to and there’s food at home. If they want to order in, they will.”

“A’right,” 2-D agreed, settling into the passenger seat. “Do you know ‘em?”

“Not Mosh,” Murdoc admitted as he started the car and eased out of the stall. “Maybe Neil, if he bothers. There’s bound to be a flock of birds there all the same and it doesn’t hurt to meet new people.” He fished around in his pocket, pulled out the bottle of Adderall, and tossed it to 2-D, who caught it awkwardly. “Grab a couple more to keep you going, but mind what you take when you get there.”

Normally he wouldn’t give two figs how people wanted to mess with their systems, but 2-D was still as wet as they came and he didn’t want a corpse on his hands. Nor did he want to haul the insensate singer home or have to wait for him to recover enough to sing. What was the point of burdening himself with 2-D’s presence if he couldn’t even have access to the voice that he needed?

He stewed in his indignities for a while, tucking the Adderall back into his pocket when 2-D handed it to him. He only half-listened to the singer blather on until he realized that 2-D was telling a funny story that actually _was_ sort of funny. He gave it his full attention then, laughing appreciatively at all the right parts. This tickled 2-D, whose entire expression lit up. He launched into another story of a similar calibre, but had not thought through it in his overeagerness to please. He got turned around, lost in his own narrative, until his words stumbled to a halt, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“No worries, mate,” Murdoc told him, cuffing him lightly on the side of the head, a gesture that did little more than ruffle 2-D’s hair. “You were almost there. Addy might have given your brain a little kick on its way in. Happens.”

In any other circumstance, he might have called 2-D an idiot or harped on his memory issues, his lapses in attention, and his sudden non-sequiturs, but he was feeling generous at the moment and 2-D had been genuinely entertaining. Let it not be said that Murdoc Niccals could not give the devil his due.

At least when he could not glean personal profit by claiming that due for himself.

He also wondered if he did not feel the faintest glimmer of guilt. Haphazard research suggested that 2-D was perhaps not the mightiest of intellects as a child, but it was certain that none of his quirks would have been improved by cranial trauma.

It was only the faintest glimmer, and he quashed it quickly. It was the kind of thought that made him want to belt the hapless kid in the seat beside him to prove how little concern he actually had. He resisted, partly because he needed them both in a good mood to get through the rest of the evening and partly because it did no good to dwell on past events. They could not be changed, after all, and if some dumb kid was too stupid to move away from the windows when…

Well, it did no good to dwell on past events.

Mosh’s place was further out than he expected, which gave 2-D time to chatter on, eschewing solid narrative for whatever momentary thought passed through his head, but the further they drove, the quieter he grew. This was the opposite of what Murdoc expected once the Adderall had flooded 2-D’s system. The singer was antsy enough to keep talking, fidgeting and straightening his clothing, but Murdoc realized what was up when 2-D finally pulled a flick-comb from an inner pocket and started futzing with his hair in the sun visor’s mirror.

“They won’t care one whit what you look like, mate,” Murdoc chuckled. “Anyone there’s apt to be higher than a kite. If you’re clean, upright, and breathing, you’ll be the belle of the ball. Hell, breathing might be enough. If that.”

“You dun get a second chance to make a first impression,” 2-D replied primly, an adage no doubt learned from his mother.

“My first impression of you was ‘unconscious with plate marks’,” Murdoc told him, “and look where you are now! A soon-to-be-famous singer with the world’s greatest band,” he added quickly before 2-D could think to fill in the blanks himself.

“Well, if I’m gonna be famous, I want it to be for singing, not bad hair,” 2-D said, putting the comb away. His hair showed no indication of its use, looking like nothing so much as a blue dandelion.

“There are worse things than bad hair,” Murdoc said, but elected not to comment on 2-D’s probable lovemaking techniques. Not yet. He would wait for the general party consensus before he put that to use. “That said, here we are.”

Mosh’s place was nothing so much as a run-down rowhouse in the rougher part of town. There wasn’t much place to park, but it was the kind of area in which not too much mind was paid to parking in the first place. If a car could fit in a tree, wedge into an alley, or hang from a telephone pole, it was welcome to be there. Only double-parking would earn scorn and a dismantling of the offending vehicle.

Well, the car was apt to be dismantled in any case, but at least the scorn could be avoided.

This was fine by Murdoc, who had nothing of value apart from his well-hidden boots and who kept this particular vehicle straddling the fine line between well maintained enough to run smoothly and old and worn enough to be unpopular among enthusiasts. It was not that the vehicle was uncool, oh no. It was simply that its coolness was maintained by having all its original parts, being unique and easy to spot, and being driven by him, Murdoc Niccals. The removal of any one of these components would destroy its value and it was already toeing that line by having 2-D in it.

Murdoc pulled into the drive of one of the neighbouring houses that might or might not have been unoccupied. It was further from Mosh’s place than he liked, but closer than he would have been if he’d had any concern for the livelihood of others. 2-D paid no mind to any of it, clambering out of the car to readjust his clothing for the fiftieth time, and declaring himself ready.

“The world is glad to know it, Dents,” Murdoc told him as they approached the house. He might have commented further, but was distracted by a call from the front step.

“Oi, Niccals! What the bloody fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Business. Mind your own, McCullough,” Murdoc returned. “Ask Jimmy if you’ve a mind to.”

“Bloody wanker,” Neil McCullough said and spat on the ground to underline his displeasure. “You might as well come in then. As long as you’re not looking for a handout or claiming any favours.”

“When have I ever asked you for a dime?” Murdoc said, but Neil only snorted and spat again in reply. “Favours’ll depend on who’s here.”

“No one you know. Who’s the arse-licker?”

“Shut your gob, that’s my singer,” Murdoc replied automatically, flinging an arm around 2-D’s shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie that must have startled the kid, although he said nothing. It was not something Murdoc would usually do, but Neil’s snotty attitude fired up his territorial urges.

“Makes me want to get a dog,” Neil said. “Something wrong with his eyes?”

“Old injury.”

“Contagious?”

Murdoc rolled his eyes and tried to remember what curse put him in contact with Neil McCollough.

“Fuck me, Neil. You think I’d bring the plague down on your house?” he growled.

“You’re plague enough,” Neil replied, unperturbed. “He business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, if you’ve got it.”

“If,” Neil snorted again, lighting a cigarette and taking a large draw. He blew the smoke out slowly as he considered. “Might be someone for him. Keep him busy while you talk to Mosh.” He leaned in the open door and hollered into the house. “Oi! Stella!”

“Stop shouting, you dumb fuck. I’m right here.”

A woman, thirty if she was a day, mounds of curly blonde and pink-tinted hair pulled back and cascading over her shoulders, leaned out of the doorway, offering everyone gathered there a glimpse into her generous cleavage. She did not appear to notice or care. She was quite possibly aware that any attention focused on her breasts would be quickly drawn away by her impeccable make-up and furiously moving jaw as she worked a piece of chewing gum.

“Fresh meat for ya,” Neil said, nodding in 2-D’s direction. “Don’t mind the eyes. Old injury.”

2-D, easily distracted by many things, but never chewing gum, bloomed a bright pink.

“Ooo… You brought me a blusher!” Stella cooed.

“He’s not a virgin, just randy,” Murdoc warned her, sussing out the woman’s particular kink. Although it ran contrary to his image, he took no special pleasure in defiling the innocent. For one, they tended to be crap in the sack. “Still, new’s new. I’m sure you’ve some tricks he hasn’t seen.”

If Stella seemed ever-so-slightly disappointed, it did nothing to quell 2-D’s enthusiasm when she held her hand out to him.

“Come with me, Sweetie,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me a little about yourself and all the things you like.”

“Christ, don’t start with that,” Murdoc groaned as 2-D squeezed by him. “We haven’t got all night.” He grinned then and slapped 2-D’s arse in passing. “Have a good time and mind your manners. I’ll pick you up on the way out.”

“Hell of a thing,” Neil said, leaning up against the door jamb.

Murdoc could not tell whether Neil was speaking of Stella, 2-D, 2-D’s following Murdoc around, Murdoc’s permitting it, or Murdoc’s presence in general. In all honesty, he did not care. He had no desire to spend more time than necessary in Neil’s presence or that of anyone with whom he was acquainted.

“Where’s our host?” he said, hoping to move things along. “Word has it, he might have a package for me.”

“That’s the word is it?” Neil said.

Murdoc merely stared at him until he relented.

“Check upstairs. Last saw him in the first room on the right. Keep it quiet and wait your turn.”

“I’ll wait if it suits,” Murdoc replied. “I’ll ask Mosh if he knows you’re playin’ lord, too. See how that goes down.”

He thought Neil squirmed a bit at that, but pretended not to notice and made his way inside. The stairway faced the entrance – bad energy, he thought – but he paused to take in the downstairs party scene.

A smokey haze hung about the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he could see 2-D and Stella, bottles in hand, at the far end. He had her up against the wall nuzzling her neck as she laughed and whispered in his ear. She was taller than she looked leaning out of the doorway, but 2-D still had to bend to reach her. By the gestures accompanying her whispers, Murdoc gathered she wanted to take their play elsewhere and looked away. A thread of envy wormed its way into his thoughts, but he cast it aside. He had wanted 2-D occupied, and so he was. End of story.

Since Neil had stripped him of any desire to network, he did not bother trying to identify anyone else in the crowd of party goers and made his way upstairs. A few people hung around the corridor, conversing in the way of people bumping into one another by surprise on the way to and from the loo. He recognized one bloke, a small-time dealer, part-time stage crew, freelance music rag writer, and occasional runner named Chester. He insisted people call him “Chess”, and Murdoc couldn’t blame him. Who the bloody Hell wanted to be called “Chester”?

Chess must have spotted him as well because he raised a hand in greeting. Murdoc nodded in reply and sidled over to stand with him. Chess was all right. Too busy and energetic for Murdoc’s personal taste, but decent enough company. Too good, in fact, for the rest of the party’s riffraff, and Murdoc could only suspect that they had both ended up there on the trail of the same rumour.

“Looking for Mosh?” Chess said, taking a drag of his cigarette. Like 2-D, he preferred his tobacco mingled with cannabis, and the herbal scent of it softened the haze building up in the corridor.

“Indeed,” Murdoc said. He normally kept his business to himself, but Chess was safe enough. “Heard talk about some product.”

“Same,” Chess admitted. “He’s takin’em one by one in that room.” Here he nodded toward a closed door. “Fucking lord of the manor or some rot. Still, worth checking out. You can come in with me, if you don’t mind me knowin’ your business. Mosh won’t care if we insist. Money’s money. Might save us both some time ‘cause it’s hard to tailor bullshit when you’ve got two people to cover. He’s got a couple goons with him. Big enough blokes, but dim.”

“Mighty generous of you,” Murdoc agreed. “My business is mine alone, but yours involves other people.”

“Well, I didn’t bring a client list, so no worries there. We’ll both go. In and out and Bob’s your uncle.”

That was fine by Murdoc and they chatted until the door opened up, disgorging a rough looking sort better suited to the current climate than either of them. A large man, presumably one of the goons, pointed at Chess and gestured that he come along. He did so, drawing Murdoc into his wake.

“One at a time,” the goon intoned.

“This here’s my mate and sometimes partner,” Chess said. “We need to go together. Make sure we’re on the same wavelength.”

The goon opened his mouth to protest, but a voice from inside the room forestalled him.

“Let ‘em in. Don’t waste time. Unless they got weapons or some such.”

“Nothin’ here,” Chess said, allowing a cursory pat down.

Murdoc sometimes carried a knife, but had thankfully left it behind, not anticipating a need for it. He allowed the goon to brush his hands over his pockets and down his legs, giving him a little whistle when the goon reached his hips. It was a risky move that might speed things up or get him punched. Fortunately, it was the former, and they were permitted to pass into Mosh’s presence, as the goon pulled the door shut behind him.

Mosh looked exactly as Murdoc expected someone named Mosh to look, but greasier, which was impressive because Murdoc’s imagination had already oiled him up considerably. If they’d met alone on the street, Murdoc might have kneed him and simply taken whatever he wanted. Only the presence of his bodyguards kept Mosh safe. That, and Murdoc highly suspected Mosh carried a gun. It was the only way someone as reedy and unpleasant as Mosh would survive without being beat up on the regular.

“Personal or business?” Mosh said, his voice as oily as the rest of him.

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Chess told him. “Some personal, some in trade.” He jerked a thumb in Murdoc’s direction. Normally, Murdoc disliked being spoken for, but he let Chess run with it. “This here’s my mate and associate. Mostly personal, but he sometimes buys favours for me. We need a matching quality. None of that heavily cut stuff pawned off on individuals either. My clients are high class. They’ll know.”

True enough, Murdoc thought. Chess mainly sold for recreational purposes on the days he set stage. He doubted the class of most of Chess’s clients, but they would definitely know. He certainly would.

Negotiations followed. Nothing fancy, just the usual, but blown far out of proportion as though Mosh relished the attention and wished to bask in his glory for as long as possible. The quality of the product was higher than usual, so Daz had certainly not lied about that, and if the pressing of Ecstasy did half as well as promised, it would be a bargain at twice the price. No time to test them, unfortunately, and no willingness to do so in the shithole that was Mosh’s base of operations, but the risk seemed minimal.

He was on the verge of clinching the deal when the screaming started.

“Oi! Niccals!” Neil shouted, muffled by distance and the door. “Come get your dog!”

“Bloody Hell,” Murdoc breathed and pushed his way past the goons, who held the door open for him and shut it just as quickly when he passed.

He ran downstairs, elbowing party-goers out of his way, and followed Neil to the back of the house and a little room just off the main living area, sparsely furnished with a narrow bed that served its purpose well enough. It took a moment for his brain to analyze the situation, and in that time he realized something that had never really registered with him, but was no doubt obvious to anyone outside of Kong Studios.

2-D was _big_.

Tall, yes. Murdoc was aware of that, but he could admit to himself if no one else that he believed his insecurities in his own height had exaggerated 2-D’s size. He seemed small, in many ways, affable and self-effacing, obedient and eager to please, every bit the dog Neil insisted that he was.

He was also six-foot-two and a healthy English boy. Thin? Yes, especially after a round on the coma diet plan, but also well cared for and hardly underfed. The width of his hand could span a dinner plate and his grip, especially when anxious, was a steel vice. Had he been inclined to fight, his reach would give him an interesting tactical advantage, but the truth was that 2-D never fought. At least, he never picked a fight and certainly never retaliated when antagonized, although he had allowed Murdoc to drag him into altercations on more than one occasion.

He had completely lost his mind.

Not that he attacked anyone, a small relief, but he had bloodied the nose of two party-goers who had tried to calm him down as he backed away from them, shirt rucked up and unbuckled trousers clinging precariously to his hips, shaking his head and pawing at his ears, eyes half-squinched shut against the light, open just enough to look wildly about the room, glaring through red-black wells at anyone who dared to get near him.

“What the ever-blooming fuck is going on here?” Murdoc bellowed, startling everyone into inaction, including 2-D, who uttered a hiss that slid into a strangled whine of fear and discontent as he clamped his hands to the side of his head. Stella looked the most guilty among them, so Murdoc turned on her. “What the bloody Hell did you give him?”

“I just offered him sugar candies,” Stella replied petulantly.

“You know what I mean, you daft cow!” Murdoc snapped, surging forward to give her a cuff on the ear. “What was in them?”

“LSD!” she shouted in reply “What the Hell else would be in them?”

“Did you _tell_ him before you offered?”

“Why? What else are sugar pills for?”

“Candy, you mad bint!” Murdoc snarled. “He’s got a sweet tooth.”

“Oh, and _I’m_ supposed to know?” Stella snapped, her voice edged with hysteria. “He said he takes B on the regular and done it before. Mushrooms at least. A nice mix that. Calming—”

“At home!” Murdoc interjected. “Where it’s quiet and he can stare at the wall for hours, playing trippy music and watching pretty colours. Not at a bloody party full of people when he’s already amped up! The place is full of light and noise and cigarettes and you jack up his senses?”

“How do you expect _me_ to know?” Stella wailed.

Her voice dragged across the brain like fingernails on a chalkboard and 2-D responded to it with a keening moan, clutching at his hair in his anxiety.

“I expect you to tell a man what you’re shoving in his face!” Murdoc replied. “Bloody Hell, Dents! Pull your trousers up! You look like an absolute knob…”

He stepped in closer to 2-D, ignoring the possibility of being clocked like the others. It was possible that 2-D recognized his voice as the singer only took one lazy swat at him, which he batted away easily.

“It’s me, you idiot,” he growled, keeping his voice low. He grabbed the waistband of 2-D’s jeans, yanked them back up over his hips, and fastened them. Then he pulled 2-D’s shirt back down, smoothing it out gently in an act more proprietary than kind. It was all he could manage before 2-D stumbled back another step, clawing at his sleeves and into his skin, slick with sweat, flushed and panting. He shook his head in violent denial, tears coursing down his cheeks, a common reaction to intense emotional pain.

It left Murdoc stunned and uncertain. In spite of his inexperience, 2-D had taken enough drugs for Murdoc to store a catalogue of reactions in his mind and he had never witnessed one so violent. Not in 2-D, at any rate.

He wondered briefly if 2-D should be brought to the A&E, knowing he would never get the singer back to the car in this condition. Nor would an ambulance suit, given where they were. Overtired, overwhelmed, and now seized by panic, 2-D would fight him every step of the way. It was useless to think of anything else until 2-D could return to level. Still high, more than likely – there was no way they could outwait an acid trip in this environment – but collected enough to walk without bolting into traffic. He had ways of helping that along, of course, but it meant doing something in public that he normally reserved for the privacy of the studio.

His thoughts were interrupted by Neil shouting, “Both of you, out! None of this bloody nonsense on my watch!”

“Well, I can’t very well get him out like this, can I you daft bastard?” Murdoc snapped back, switching himself to autopilot. If there was one thing he could manage, it was to spin a situation any way he wanted it. “Get me a pillow and blanket.”

“You’re not staying the night—“

Murdoc wheeled on him with the wrath of Satan himself.

“Look, you want us out and I want to leave, but that won’t happen until he calms down!” he roared and winced when 2-D wailed behind him. “Get me a bloody pillow and— Not that one!” He turned on Stella, who had stepped toward the bed. “Make them clean ones, you—“

“They weren’t used, now, were they?” Stella snapped in reply, yanking a blanket off the bed and tossing it in Murdoc’s direction. He caught it, but barely, and completely missed the pillow she sent after it, which smacked him in the head before flumping over onto the floor.

Murdoc kicked it up against the wall and tossed the blanket after it. Then he turned on 2-D, grabbing him by the upper arm and bullying him back into the corner.

“Move your arse, sunshine,” he hissed under his breath when he met resistance.

“They’re gonna get me,” 2-D whimpered, looking around through narrowed eyelids.

“Nothing’s gonna get you.”

“They’re watching…”

“Stop making a scene and they’ll stop.” When 2-D only shook his head, Murdoc changed tack. “I saved your life. You’re my singer. You think I’m gonna let anything get you? Trust me.”

2-D did not go quietly, struggling and keening that someone was after him, but eventually allowed Murdoc to lead him to the corner and sit him down. Murdoc dropped down beside him, shuffling him further up against the wall.

“You got a wall on one side, a wall behind you, and me on your other side, you wet end,” Murdoc huffed in response to 2-D’s ongoing fears. “You think anything’s gonna get ya?”

“They can come from the front. They’re watchin’ me,” 2-D insisted, struggling against Murdoc’s hold, but unable to get enough purchase to stand up again. He banged his head against the wall, not too hard, but with enough force to cause a distinct “thunk” that made the onlookers wince.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Murdoc told him, glaring up at the party-goers, “but your uncle Murdoc’s got a remedy for that.”

He dragged the blanket over and shook it out, tossing it over 2-D’s head. 2-D yelped in terror as Murdoc spread it out, getting as much coverage as he could, before ducking under the edge of the blanket.

“I told ya nothing’d get you,” he told 2-D, who gave no indication that he had heard. “I’ve got you covered and no one can see you now. Just breathe. And you lot shove off,” he added, resurfacing to wave angrily at the gathered crowd. “The faster this is done, the faster we’re gone and it won’t happen with you bloody vultures circling.”

“What’s the pillow for, then?” Neil smirked as the party-goers began to drift away. “Gonna put him out of our misery?”

“No,” Murdoc informed him, maintaining eye contact as he reached out to grab the pillow and shove it between his back and the wall. “I’m not getting any younger is all.”

“Well, don’t get too comfortable, you’ve got—“

“Shut your fucking gob, Neil,” Murdoc said. He did not yell or snap or even overemphasize his words. He had too much on his hands to spare Neil even an ounce of his energy. “You’re as useless as tits on a bull. I’ve seen roaches with bigger balls than you. Get out of my face before I ram my boot up your arse.”

Neil opened his mouth to say something he no doubt thought would be clever, but Murdoc curtailed his efforts by ignoring him completely and ducking back under the blanket where 2-D quivered and wailed, pulling at his ears, eyes shut tight now that he no longer had to watch his back. His nose had begun to run, snot smearing his upper lip and mingling with the tears that still poured over his cheeks in a torrent, but he did not seem to notice.

Murdoc sighed and pulled out a handkerchief, clean as of that morning.

“Blow,” he ordered, holding it up to 2-D’s face as though he were a child.

He didn’t really expect 2-D to respond and was not disappointed. He sighed again and wiped the kid’s face, causing a minor panic and eliciting a sharp cry of fear. It lasted only a moment, and then 2-D returned to his regular moans and motions of distress.

Bloody annoying, Murdoc thought, and a trashing of all his careful plans, his delicate balance of weariness and recovery. 2-D was exhausted enough when they’d come here. Murdoc had expected a quick fling to lift the singer’s mood. Instead the damned cow had launched him directly into sensory overload. Nothing would bring him back from that. Nothing but kindness. Gentleness. Things Murdoc found in short supply.

He dabbled in it, of course. Soft words and compliments had their uses and their place. That place was behind closed doors, back at the studio. It would not do to have the image he had so carefully constructed tarnished by gentleness in the presence of witnesses. And yet, here he was, needing to offer comfort to someone too far gone to accept it in the hopes of calming him down enough to get him back out to the car.

It was an uphill battle. 2-D reacted poorly to any touch that was not Murdoc’s obvious presence beside him, blocking access to whatever monster he saw in his dreams. It tried Murdoc’s patience, soured his mood, and filled his chest with a burning emptiness that enraged him all the more.

He hated 2-D and his weaknesses and his vulnerability and the fact that he could afford to have all these things because Murdoc – oh, good old uncle Murdoc – was there to take care of all the rest. Poor, stupid _child_ , barely twenty, sick and shattered…

From accidents Murdoc had caused, high on amphetamines Murdoc had supplied, exhausted by Murdoc’s design, left alone in untrustworthy company so that Murdoc could buy a different class of drugs instead of being satisfied to pay a little more to his usual supplier.

Sometimes Murdoc thought he was his own worst enemy and that alone gave him the strength to keep his temper long enough, he hoped, to calm 2-D down.

Then 2-D started banging his head on the wall.

“Sweet Satan, Stuart!” Murdoc hissed and tried to stop him, but 2-D kicked up a fuss and pushed him away. Murdoc debated what else could be done, but gave in and let the kid at it when he realized that 2-D was not hitting his head terribly hard, merely bumping it lightly as he rocked himself almost imperceptibly, and that the steady rhythm seemed to be helping. 2-D’s wailing and moaning dropped off, although his breathing remained quick and harsh, and he cautiously dropped his hands from his ears, reaching back up whether a particularly sharp sound erupted from the main room beyond.

An improvement, Murdoc thought, and an opportunity.

“It’s all right,” he soothed in a gentle, even tone when 2-D’s hands were away from his ears and the words could conceivably be heard. “It’s all right, mate. You’re safe with me, although you might feel better back home. What do you say? You think you can help me get you there?”

2-D groaned deeply and tried to bury his entire head in his arms.

A no, then, Murdoc thought, but did not let it deter him. With his head buried, 2-D was no longer banging it against the wall, allowing Murdoc space to slip an arm around 2-D’s shoulders. He tensed himself for a reaction, but 2-D did little more than whine and moan from the shelter of his arms.

A small blessing, but a welcome one. Murdoc chanced his luck a little further, kneading 2-D’s shoulder, and then sliding his hand over to rub his upper back, moving up to the base of his neck, back down, and across. This produced few results at first, but the tension 2-D carried slowly began to unwind. He let his body slide down as he did so, eventually slumping against Murdoc, one hand reaching over to cling to his jacket.

“There’s my lad,” Murdoc murmured to him, uncomfortable with the familiarity, but preferring it to panic. 2-D’s breathing was still too quick, hitching and gasping, and he still squeezed his eyes shut, but these, too, would ease. It was just a matter of time.

The thought he had pushed aside rose unbidden once again.

_He could love you._

A right joke, Murdoc thought. Love was an illusion, giving access to those who would use him for their own purposes. He had vowed long ago that, if he were to be used for any purpose at all, it would be for his own. If he had to perform, it would be for his profit. If he had to show charm and solicitude, it would be for the benefit of his plans and his alone. Sex was fun – pleasure-inducing at any rate – but a tool like any other. Love was useless.

_You wouldn’t need to love. Not unless you wanted to. Just offer this. More of this. And he will love you. Is that not a benefit?_

I hate him, Murdoc thought. I hate everything that he is. I want him to be miserable. As miserable as I’ve been. He’s had so much. He _is_ so much. I want him to know what it is to never be enough.

_Do you?_

I’m his tormentor.

_And his comfort._

“Bollocks,” Murdoc murmured and tried to ignore the way 2-D clung to him, his breath evening out into little sighs of relief.

He thought 2-D might be just about ready to be led out of that place, when Neil interrupted the proceedings with a shout that caused 2-D to jump and clutch wildly at Murdoc’s jacket.

“Niccals! If the screaming’s stopped you’ve got to go.”

“Get stuffed,” Murdoc snapped in reply, ducking back out from under the blanket to glare at Neil. “What’ll you do? Call the bloody cops? ‘Oi, officer. We’ve a couple of loiterers in our den of sin and iniquity. Would you mind moving them out, then? Don’t mind the slags ’n’ bags, they’re just for sale. ‘Ta.’”

Neil’s face contorted into something a hair shy of hate, but he said nothing. What could he say? Murdoc was right and he knew it.

Still, it _was_ time to go. Murdoc was tired of Mosh’s place, tired of playing nursemaid, and tired of bloody Neil McCullough, who somehow thought he was ruler of the roost.

“You all right there, Dents?” he said, giving 2-D a nudge.

2-D grunted once in acknowledgement, but said nothing else, captivated by whatever visions were clouding his mind. Murdoc pulled his handkerchief out once more and gave the kid’s face a quick wipe. This time, 2-D obeyed when prompted to blow, a good sign overall, but also a disgusting annoyance.

“I’m going to pull the blanket off,” Murdoc warned him. “Don’t panic.”

2-D did not panic, and stood when prompted, still staring dazedly into the distance. This was promising, Murdoc thought, in the sense that leading 2-D to the car would be easier than expected, but also disconcerting. 2-D’s mindless obedience of simple commands was not a route Murdoc wished to revisit.

He found 2-D’s jacket crumpled on the floor, shook it out, and draped it over his arm, not wanting to struggle with putting it on when 2-D could offer him no assistance.

“Let’s go, sunshine,” he told 2-D. “The night’s not getting any younger, and neither am I.”

When 2-D did not immediately fall into step behind him, Murdoc sighed and took the singer’s hand, towing him along. 2-D stumbled once, but got into the rhythm of things, walking only a step behind and seemingly oblivious to the jeers and catcalls that followed them out of the room.

“Finally got the feeb up on his feet, didja?”

“I’d invite you to suck my dick, McCullough,” Murdoc replied, “but my mum taught me not to fuck animals.”

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Neil jeered. “You waltz in crowing about _my_ singer. _My_ band. Like you’ve ever made a dent in the music scene. You’ll fail this time like all the others. You’re nothing but a worthless chump. A right bleeding cu—“

Neil’s insult choked off as 2-D’s arm shot out and pinned him up against the wall. A hand that could span a dinner plate splayed across Neil’s chest, fingers – long and strong as a steel vice – creeped around the base of his neck, and Neil’s eyes widened in sudden terror as he realized just how tall six-foot-two really was when it loomed over him, glaring down through eyes as deep and bloody black as the pits of Hell.

The tears that welled in them and spilled down 2-D’s cheeks were somehow the most terrifying part of all.

“Niccals…” he wheezed when 2-D leaned into him, lips peeling back from his teeth in a snarl.

Murdoc had no idea whether 2-D was reacting to Neil himself or some acid-fuelled delusion, but he held back a moment, enjoying the show as he shook a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lit it leisurely.

“Now, Dents,” he said reasonably, knocking 2-D lightly on the arm. “Is that any way to treat someone smaller, stupider, and less talented than you?”

When this did not net him the desired response, Murdoc sighed and simplified his demands.

“Let him go, Stu.”

2-D did so, but nothing more.

“Step away, Stu.”

2-D did this as well, and only then did Neil have space and balls enough to stumble out of arm’s reach.

“He’s a bloody mad man,” Neil spat, now a safe distance away.

“He’s a stupid twat with a pretty voice and level eight keyboard skills,” Murdoc said, “and he’s my singer. He’d’ve been fine if your ilk had manners enough to tell a man what he was being given, but you’re not. You want us to leave? We’re leaving, so shut your gob. Don’t make a bigger mistake than you already are. Come on, Dents. I’ll take you home.”

He grabbed 2-D by the arm and pulled him resolutely toward the front door. 2-D did not kick up a fuss and no one else impeded them, a small miracle all on its own.

The night air gave him some space to breathe, and 2-D as well, he thought, as the singer livened up a little. Unfortunately, the darkness livened up his anxiety as well and he clutched at Murdoc’s arm and coat, keeping a step behind him as though he were a shield, clinging for all he was worth.

“And here I thought you’d grown a pair after that scene in there,” Murdoc said, but 2-D did not respond, only clutched a little tighter. Murdoc supposed he shouldn’t have expected any better.

The walk to the vehicle was mercifully short and uneventful, and he managed to bundle 2-D into the front seat without too much difficulty. He had a much harder time getting 2-D to let him go so he could walk around to the other side. He had only just settled in behind the wheel when a knock on his window nearly scared him out of his skin.

He half-expected to see Neil standing there, but it was Chess, so Murdoc took a chance and lowered the window.

“Picked up your order, mate,” Chess said. “I’ll even give it to you at cost.”

“You’re the last of the good ones,” Murdoc told him. “Can I have a day? I’ve got my hands full.”

“That the singer you were on about?” Chess said, peering in at 2-D who sat huddled up as tightly as he could in the passenger seat, his jacket clutched to his chest, his eyes wide and unseeing, or else fixated on something in the distance, invisible to all but him.

“Hope so,” Murdoc replied. “He’s the nervous sort and someone slipped him acid on top of Adderall on top of his script. I can’t tell if he’s burnt, tripping, or shut down.”

“He got problems with noise and things?” Chess said. “My sister had problems with noise. She’d go like that sometimes. Brain just shut off so it didn’t have to hear anymore. Didn’t usually last too long, but then she didn’t do drugs. Acid’s a bitch if you’ve got problems with noise. I’ll give you a week. Might check in half-way ‘cause I move around a bit. No skin off my nose if you change your mind and don’t want it. I’ll make twice as much with it elsewhere. You gonna bring him to A&E?”

Murdoc thought about it. He needed 2-D in good shape, but the truth was that there was very little the hospital could do. LSD seldom caused an overdose. Physically, 2-D was probably all right. It was his senses that were haywire. The bright lights, antiseptic smell, and bustling noise of the emergency room were apt to make things worse, not better. If 2-D was damaged, it would be a matter for the headshrinkers, not the A&E.

“I don’t think so,” he told Chess. “He’s quiet now. Maybe he’ll sleep it off. Mighty generous offer of you though. I appreciate it and I’ll make good.”

“You’ve always done for me,” Chess replied, implying that he might have heard complaints from others. Fair enough, Murdoc thought. He had no problem stiffing those who gave him a hassle. “Keep an eye on him, if you’re smart. He’s quiet now, but might do something stupid he’ll regret if he comes ‘round at all.”

“He does that without LSD,” Murdoc replied drily and Chess grinned. His smiled carried a knowing edge that Murdoc didn’t much like. “I’d best be off. I’ll get your money.”

“Good, good,” Chess said and patted the top of the car. “I’ll be in touch.”

And with that, he was gone.

The drive back to the studio was mercifully uneventful. 2-D seemed oblivious to everything, staring blankly out the window. Every so often, he stroked the fabric of his jacket, the only sign of life. He remained in this state until Murdoc pulled into the garage and wandered around to the passenger’s side.

“All right, sunshine, up you go,” he said, holding out his hand. When 2-D paid him no mind, he nudged the singer’s shoulder. “Give me your hand, Stu, and get out of the car. I’m not carrying you.”

The direct command received better attention than the oblique one, but it was still took several minutes to manoeuvre 2-D out of the car and far enough away from the door to close it. Murdoc elected to leave their parcels where they were for the moment. He had enough to worry about.

Fortunately, the route to 2-D’s room was clear and easily managed. Murdoc briefly considered tossing him in the winnebago, but feared the narrow confines would make 2-D difficult to steer. Besides, he thought, a familiar environment might ease the trip a little.

“Pain in the arse,” Murdoc grunted, dropping 2-D onto his bed. He finagled the jacked from 2-D’s hands and tossed it aside, ignoring a soft whine of discontent. “Arms up, you stupid git. Get your shirt off. You sleep in the buff or no? Don’t know why I bother askin’ since you’re off in la-la land in any case. You’re a thorn in my hide. If I didn’t need you to sing, I’d have dumped you on the side of the road… Or maybe just left you with Mosh. I don’t think he’d complain. A face like yours would turn a buck.”

He pulled the shirt off 2-D, threw it after the jacket, and then stooped down to pull off 2-D’s shoes and socks. He didn’t know why he bothered. Normally he would be content to simply dump 2-D on the nearest horizontal surface and leave the kid there to work the garbage out of his system. It wasn’t guilt, surely. He had nothing to feel guilty about. His mild tortures? Carefully balanced. Everything would have been fine without Stella. Or Neil. Without Mosh’s place in general. Without his decision to go to Mosh’s place.

He hadn’t even wanted to go. It had been a whim more than anything. A rest stop on the highway of life. Now, his bloody singer was fucked up. Satan only knew to what extent. If his brain was completely shot, Murdoc might never get another note out of him.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that the thump against his side when he stood back up startled him. 2-D had slumped forward, head pressed to Murdoc’s abdomen, one hand questing around back to cling to his jacket. Murdoc could not see 2-D’s face, but his breath, shortening to thick, phlegmy hitches, suggested he had started to cry again. That tears had begun to trickle from his eyes again at any rate.

I hate you, Murdoc thought, running his fingers through the unruly fluff of 2-D’s hair. 2-D flinched, and then relaxed, allowing Murdoc to soothe him. I hate you. I hate your pretty face, your lovely voice, your natural talents, your loving family, your proper schooling, your middle-class privilege, your gentle idiocy, your damnable eyes…

Oh, but those eyes when he turned on Neil. Not for insulting him, no… For insulting _me_.

“Stand up, Stu,” Murdoc commanded, honing his voice to a razor’s edge, although he felt no steel in it. “Take off your trousers.”

2-D uttered a little sound in the negative and tightened his grip.

“Fine, stay in your bloody jeans, but lie down,” Murdoc said and was thwarted by that same grunt of denial.

I hate you, he thought.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Murdoc assured 2-D, who finally conceded, clinging to scraps of Murdoc’s clothing until his head hit the pillow and Murdoc brushed him away.

I hate you, he thought.

“Cover yourself up, idiot,” Murdoc said, grabbing the far end of the coverlet and pulling it over the singer. “I’m just going to turn off the light.”

I hate you, he thought.

He flipped the switch, stripped off his jacket, and flopped down on the far side of the bed, sighing as he felt 2-D’s fingers tangle in his shirt, seeking reassurance.

“I’s dark,” 2-D whispered. He sounded far away.

“Oh, now you talk,” Murdoc murmured. “Of course it’s dark. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Dark and gone,” 2-D insisted, resting his head against Murdoc’s shoulder. “I’s all gone.”

Murdoc stared at the ceiling, free arm flung over his forehead.

“Not all,” he said. "Go to sleep, Stuart. I'm right here."


End file.
